


docendo discimus

by AccursedSpatula



Series: astra inclinant, sed non obligant [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bath Houses, Cross-cultural, Cultural Differences, Drinking, Embarrassment, Falling In Love, Flirting, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Vomiting, faux pas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 15:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14718992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccursedSpatula/pseuds/AccursedSpatula
Summary: They’ve been back for a week, Ardyn settling into life as it was before he left it, and now adjusting to having this large,foreignpresence wandering the halls. He doesn’t mind Gilgamesh, really; he’s endearing and eager despite his imposing nature, and he keeps to himself, for the most part, unless summoned by Ardyn or his brother.AKA 5 times Gilgamesh made a cultural faux pas and the 1 time Ardyn did.





	docendo discimus

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Latin phrase meaning 'While teaching we learn.'

They’ve been back for a week, Ardyn settling into life as it was before he left it, and now adjusting to having this large, _foreign_ presence wandering the halls. He doesn’t mind Gilgamesh, really; he’s endearing and eager despite his imposing nature, and he keeps to himself, for the most part, unless summoned by Ardyn or his brother.

Ardyn rises at his normal time that morning, just after dawn, dressing himself before wandering down to the culina for breakfast. It takes him a moment to discern that Gilgamesh is standing at one of the serving tables, pushing around patina in a bronze dish. He doesn’t belong in this scene, Ardyn’s sleep-hazy brain tells him, but yet here he is.

“Morning,” Ardyn says, snagging a fat chunk of spelt bread and reaching for a cup. He busies himself reaching for the decanter and filling his cup with red wine as Gilgamesh moves beside him.

Ardyn blinks as he sets the decanter down. Gilgamesh is _kneeling_ at his feet, forehead inches from the ground in the deepest bow Ardyn has ever seen. His stature is so large that even kneeling in a ball like this his shoulders still rest at Ardyn’s knees, and Ardyn doesn’t know how to react, just staring down at Gilgamesh’s prone shape for a few long seconds.

“What are you... doing?” he asks eventually, picking up his wine cup and taking a healthy swallow. He needs it more than the bread right now.

Gilgamesh sits back onto his heels. “Is this not customary?” he says, brown eyes full of innocence.

“I’m always flattered when men throw themselves at my feet, yes,” Ardyn replies, raising his brows. “But no, it’s not really customary.” _No matter how much I’d like it to be,_ he thinks to himself.

Gilgamesh frowns, looking down at his own knees. “Perhaps I misunderstood,” he comments, rising to his feet.

“Misunderstood what?” Ardyn tears a chunk of the bread off and dips it into the wine before popping the morsel into his mouth.

“The vilica told me that bowing and scraping for one’s creditors is customary,” Gilgamesh admits, laughing softly to himself, but Ardyn can hear the nervousness in his tone.

“Oh, that?” he says, waggling a fresh chunk of bread at Gilgamesh. “It’s not... You don’t literally bow. It’s more of... You go around and say good morning.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.” Ardyn nods slowly several times to underscore his point. Gilgamesh seems to accept this, though there’s still a look of disappointment about him, and he goes back to dicing up his patina with his spoon.

Ardyn sets his cup down. “You know,” he drawls, dipping a fresh puff of bread into it, watching the white crumb bloom a beautiful crimson, “almost every foreigner makes that mistake. It’s really a poorly named tradition. Can hardly blame you.”

Gilgamesh sneaks a glance at him, one brow raised in amused resignation. Ardyn stuffs the bread into his mouth and then curls the corners of his mouth up into a grin as he chews.

\---

Gilgamesh is a rather proud looking, handsome man, and Ardyn vows to do something about his clothes to better reflect that. In the weeks he’s been at the Izunia estate, he’s stuck to his old clothing, to trousers and tunics and boots, and while Ardyn is certain such things are fashionable in his homeland, they’re not among the Lucian trends.

He has a tunic from fine wool crafted for him, and a matching toga; both are dyed green with brilliant stripes of gold tablet woven into the edges. Ardyn keeps them a secret, and on the morning of the first day of the summer solstice festivities, he presents them to Gilgamesh.

“I thought you might wear them to the ludi today,” he says, holding out the neatly folded garments as they stand in the hallway. “Somnus has a box to watch the races.”

Gilgamesh graciously takes the clothing from Ardyn, and a distinctly appreciative smile pulls at his lips. Ardyn knows he’s no doubt aware that such clothing is reserved for the upper class; up until a few decades ago, its usage was restricted even further.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’d be honored to.”

A short while later, freshly bathed, hair oiled and pulled back (perhaps one day Ardyn will get him to trim that mane into something more respectable), and now wearing the brilliant green tunic, Gilgamesh struggles to wind the folds of the toga around himself as Ardyn looks on. Gilgamesh is a rather large man, and the half-circle of cloth for his toga seems more of a tent awning than a garment, Gilgamesh bunching and tucking it in and attempting to recreate the dress he’s seen but never donned.

“Here, let me,” Ardyn offers, wearing his own orangey ochre tunic, one that comes to his knees. He’s yet to put on his own toga, a dark crimson, leaving him free to move about. He takes the heavy wool from Gilgamesh and makes him stand with his arms slightly out.

“You start here,” he says, tucking and holding the start in place, carefully winding a portion around Gilgamesh’s torso. “This part makes the _sinus,_ it’s a little pocket. And then here, over the shoulder.” He continues working, Gilgamesh nodding and following along. “And this is the _umbo,_ another pocket for you.”

Ardyn tucks the last edge in, and Gilgamesh lowers his arms, staring down at himself, at the drapery of the toga, the lone bare sleeve of his tunic, and his sandaled feet sticking out beneath it all. “Thank you,” he says, and Ardyn smiles, patting him on the arm in approval before heading off to finish dressing himself.

Outside it’s wonderfully sunny but woefully hot, and Ardyn marches side by side with Gilgamesh as they follow Somnus’ procession to the circus. The morning rains have slicked the stones of the streets, and it’s just beginning to dry as they set out, the streets already packed with those out and about for the festivities, as well as all the others going about their regular days.

Ardyn wishes they had taken a litter, though it wouldn’t have been feasible for all those in their party, as he struggles to keep up with Somnus’ pace. His brother is a military man through and through, marching them though the city on a conquest rather than a leisurely stroll. The pace is punishing on Gilgamesh, too─Ardyn can see perspiration dotting his forehead and jaw, his exhaustion no doubt bolstered by the heaviness and restrictiveness of the toga.

They round a corner off the forum, fighting through a crowd, and it’s there that Gilgamesh loses his balance and trips. Although bulky, he’s rather agile, even when caught off balance, and manages the most graceful tumble Ardyn has ever seen, ending up half on his side, arms braced before him. The party continues on, but Ardyn of course stops, holding his hand out to help Gilgamesh up (even though he fears he’s more likely to be pulled _down_ given the difference in their builds).

Gilgamesh takes his hand and gets back to his feet, cursing in his mother tongue under his breath. He pats down the toga, now bearing a sizeable mudsplatter on part of it from the street, and that’s when he and Ardyn note the rip at the front. Gilgamesh sighs at the sight of it, fingering the noticeable rip, frowning sharply.

“It’s nothing,” Ardyn says, urging him along as they scamper to rejoin the party. Gilgamesh follows, but Ardyn can see the disappointment on his features.

The rest of the walk is smooth, and they file into the circus, the massive stone arena that Gilgamesh has only viewed in passing. He’s rather taken with it, his curiosity and awe temporarily erasing the embarrassment off his face, right up until they’re in the vomitorium leading up to their box.

Ardyn stops him there, in the low light of the tunnel, and lets the party continue on. Gilgamesh opens his mouth, no doubt to apologize for ruining the garment, but Ardyn cuts him off before he can speak.

“Toga aren’t practical; this sort of thing happens all the time,” he says, touching the rip.

Gilgamesh nods, pulling his left arm, draped in the wool of the toga, to his body. “I’ll have it mended by a tailor. Small thing, should be easy to fix,” Ardyn adds as he pries Gilgamesh’s arm back out, keeping a firm hand on his wrist.

“In the meantime, however...” he says, unwinding the heavy wool cloth off Gilgamesh’s arm and from around his torso. Gilgamesh frowns at first, until Ardyn begins to redress him, tucking away the mudstained portions of the toga, laying the clean sides out. By the time he’s done, the toga neatly re-tucked and re-plaited, there’s no mud to be seen, and the rip is snugly hidden on the inside.

“Much better, don’t you think?” Ardyn says, stepping back to view his handiwork. “You look splendid.” He puts a hand on Gilgamesh’s upper arm, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

He lets go a beat later to take a few steps towards the entrance to the box, but Gilgamesh hesitates. Ardyn turns, taking two more backwards steps. “It’d be a shame to keep the sight of such a well dressed, handsome man all to myself, no matter how much I’d like to,” he says, and Gilgamesh gives him a flat look. “Come out to the box with me?”

With a sigh of mock reluctance, but a very thankful smile, Gilgamesh followed.

\---

Ardyn’s a little surprised he hasn’t taken Gilgamesh before this, but their return from abroad has kept both him and Somnus rather busy with other affairs to afford a trip to the baths. But today, Gilgamesh had agreed when Ardyn had approached him about accompanying him, nodding in his normal jovial manner, and after the better part of an hour they were meandering past the forum to the baths.

Gilgamesh seems impressed by the size of them as they entered, Ardyn steering him towards the right entrance, gently giving the strap of Gilgamesh’s leather satchel to guide him.

“You might give all the women a scare, going in the other side,” Ardyn clarifies as they cross the threshold, and Gilgamesh laughs in response.

They’d stripped down, Ardyn allowing himself to sneak a few glances as Gilgamesh pulled off his tunic and trousers (he wouldn’t give up wearing the damn pants even after Ardyn had explained it wasn’t in fashion here), revealing a muscular expanse of warm brown skin, dotted over with coarse black hair that ran down his chest and legs.

Ardyn blames the heat of the bathhouse when Gilgamesh asks about the color on his cheeks.

The first room off the changing is the warm room, the traditional tepidarium, but neither of them dawdle particularly long there. From there, the second room is the caldarium, the hot room, with its rectangular pool on the near side of the room, the labrum full of cold water on the far side. _This_ is the main attraction, full of other bathers, and what Ardyn certainly came for; he’s content to sit and sweat it out for a while on the bench that lines the room, Gilgamesh seated beside him.

They chat for a bit, and then, when Ardyn feels that he has no more liquid left in him, he shirks the linen around his waist and grabs the bottle of oil and strigil he’s carried in with him, padding over to the pool and climbing in. Gilgamesh hesitates for a moment before shedding the linen around his own hips and grabbing the parcel he’s carried in with him, something small.

Standing in the waist high water, Ardyn’s busy running oil over his arms, coating them before he’ll run over them with the strigil, and from the corner of his eye he sees Gilgamesh slide into the pool, dipping down to wet his torso and shoulders. A moment later he reaches for his own parcel, unfolds the cloth it’s in, and takes the object, dipping it into the water before running it up his arms. Ardyn’s consumed in his own task, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s _soap,_ that Gilgamesh is lathering up beside him.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Ardyn hisses, glancing around to make sure none of the other bathers have noticed. He smacks Gilgamesh’s wrist lightly with the stigil so he drops the soap, and it bobs to the surface of the pool.

“What─” Gilgamesh says, eyes narrowed in confusion, and he scoops the soap out of the water.

“Nobody uses _soap_ here,” Ardyn snaps, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, before realizing he should pull back a bit. Gilgamesh doesn’t say anything, just turns and draws in a breath as he drops the soap back onto the cloth and folds it over it. He braces both hands on the side of the pool and makes to get out, but Ardyn lays a hand on his wrist before he can push upwards.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I assumed you knew.”

Gilgamesh stops, and Ardyn can feel the tension ease from his arms. Gently, he pulls at Gilgamesh’s wrist until he lets go of the wall and instead allows Ardyn to take his arm.

“You do it like this,” Ardyn says, reaching for the bottle of oil he’s left on the wall. He carefully drizzles a line up Gilgamesh’s muscular arm, and then sets the bottle down, slicking it over his skin with his free hand, all while still anchoring him at the wrist. Ardyn then grabs the strigil, starting at the curve of Gilgamesh’s deltoid, and begins to wick the oil away with short, curved strokes.

“See?” he asks, flicking his gaze up to meet Gilgamesh’s, who is watching Ardyn intently, curiously, committing this to memory. He works down over his forearm, the hand at Gilgamesh’s wrist slipping a little further south to instead hold the base of his hand, warm and rough despite being slightly pruned by the heat and the water. After a moment he’s finished, wicking away the last of the oil, just holding Gilgamesh’s hand for a moment, a beat of silence between them.

“I’m not sure I follow,” Gilgamesh says, breaking the silence. He reaches for the bottle of oil and hands it to Ardyn, before holding out his other arm. “Show me again?” His smile walks the line between coy and innocent as only Gilgamesh can.

Ardyn grins slightly, taking the oil from Gilgamesh’s fingers. He starts to pour a trail up from forearm to shoulder, kneading Gilgamesh’s hand all the while.

“And then perhaps I can practice on you?” Gilgamesh adds, and Ardyn flushes at the prospect.

\---

Gilgamesh is a regular fixture in Ardyn’s life with surprising speed, a companion to almost every task and outing, day in and day out. Tonight is his first exposure to real upper class Lucian living, as Somnus has decided to play host to old friends he hasn’t seen since they set out on the campaign.

Ardyn instructs him to wear whatever finery he likes, and Gilgamesh meets him outside his cubiculum that evening. He’s dressed in trousers and a fine tunic of soft wool, one cut in the style of his homeland as opposed to the Lucian garments, tied with a brilliant red sash, his long jet hair pulled back. Ardyn thinks he looks rather splendid and regal, remembering that Gilgamesh _was_ a prince in his home country. _He certainly looks the part,_ he thinks to himself as Gilgamesh approaches him in the hall.

They walk down together, finding Somnus and a few of the guests there─fashionably late, as Ardyn had intended. All eyes are on Gilgamesh for a few minutes, peering at this ‘foreign curiosity’ while they whisper among themselves and raise brows. Gilgamesh ignores it, instead following Ardyn to the leftmost couch.

Ardyn perches on the foot, stretching out on his left side almost instantly, legs slightly bent, one foot dangling off the edge. Gilgamesh sits near the front, and Ardyn can see the rigidness of his posture, realizing just how nervous he must be despite his projected aloofness. He remains seated, back so straight a mason could use it to smooth a wall, hands resting on his thighs as he surveys the room.

After a moment he sneaks a glance at Ardyn, who bobs his head, making a little gesture, trying to nudge Gilgamesh into laying down. Gilgamesh doesn’t understand, instead just tearing his gaze away, refocusing on Somnus for a moment, until he notes Ardyn still staring at him from his periphery.

“Lie down,” Ardyn whispers, gesturing to himself, and even in the low light he can see color bloom on Gilgamesh’s cheeks.

Quickly, Gilgamesh tries to arrange himself on the couch, leaning so he’s on his right side, head towards Ardyn, but he’s large, and the accubita was not meant to accommodate men of his stature. Ardyn sits up and stops him with a hand on his shoulder, and Gilgamesh looks at him.

“Left side,” Ardyn says, giving Gilgamesh an understanding smile. Gilgamesh nods, the gesture barely perceptible, and then shifts, lays himself down so he’s propped up on his left elbow, and Ardyn resumes his position at the foot of the couch.

With that snafu settled, the rest of the dinner proceeds smoothly. The gustatio are served, Ardyn helping himself to a doormouse, roasted and drizzled with honey and poppy seeds, though he notices Gilgamesh’s hesitancy when offered one. Ardyn picks his clean and goes for a second, while Gilgamesh takes the dantiest bites he’s ever seen, eating like a waifish bride to be.

Mensae primae comes out next, and Gilgamesh wolfs down one of the pastry eggs with chickatrice inside, and a good portion of roast hare, but refuses to touch the garula udder patina or the duck tongues. He nibbles a bit of the fish, a mullet in a green sauce, but Ardyn can see the hunger in his eyes still as his gaze roams over the tables, searching for what to eat.

Ardyn reaches over and plucks one of the tongues from the bowl. “Try it,” he says, handing it to Gilgamesh, and Gilgamesh, ever patient and too polite to refuse (which Ardyn may or may not have been banking on) obligingly puts it in his mouth. His grimace is barely contained, but he chews and swallows.

“Well seasoned,” he says, after. “Interesting texture.”

Ardyn frowns, instead dipping his spoon into the jellyfish patina, putting a healthy scoop of it into his own bowl, drizzlin a bit of garum over it for some added salt and flavor. He holds it out to Gilgamesh, who, shockingly, holds his hand up in quiet refusal.

“Please?” Ardyn says, tilting his head. “Jellyfish is a favorite of mine. You’ll like it.”

Gilgamesh lowers his gaze to the bowl for a moment, but reluctantly lifts his spoon and takes a portion, looking away as he lifts it to his lips. He chews for a beat, swallows, and then sits still for a second, as if evaluating just how to describe what he’s just tasted.

And then he gags.

And then he vomits.

His reaction time is surprisingly quick, and he covers his mouth as his shoulders hunch up, but he still vomits into his hand, spilling all down his sleeve and splattering onto his torso. He snatches the bowl from Ardyn, who’s still too shocked to even move, and heaves into it, looking just as confused and shocked as Ardyn is when it’s over.

“I’m sorry,” he says, like an ashamed child. “I suppose it’s not for me.” The wool tunic is stained all down the front, and Gilgamesh quickly and dexterously extracts himself from the accubita, careful to not touch the plush surface of the couch, before rushing from the triclinium.

Ardyn lingers just a few minutes, listening to the whispers and giggles of the other guests as the servants come to take the soiled dishes away. He feels unbearably guilty, and he owes nothing to those at this soiree, so he takes his leave with a brusque comment and then slides off his accubita, beelining out of the room.

He goes to the culina first, tells the servants there to drop everything and make four more of the pastry eggs and another roast hare and bring them up the moment they’re finished. With orders in place, he goes to find Gilgamesh, checking briefly in his cubiculum before he heads to the bath.

Gilgamesh is there, having stripped out of the wool tunic and discarded it carelessly on the floor, the red sash laying over it like an open wound to the garment. He’s sitting on his heels near the edge of the bath, a washbasin beside him, rinsing out a small wool towel in it before he pulls it up and wrings it out over the basin. Ardyn says nothing, just watches as he furiously scrubs off his neck and chest.

After a moment, he goes still, holding the towel in his hands. “Allow me to apologize for any embarrassment I may have caused you or your brother,” he says, and Ardyn dismisses the notion with an overdramatic wave of his hand.

“No need for apology,” he replies. “You’re hardly the first person to lose it at a party, and you won’t be the last. Sometimes just the boredom of it all is enough to have me retching.”

Gilgamesh snorts in laughter, but it’s empty, a phony gesture just for appeasement. Frowning, he pads over, and kneels beside Gilgamesh, prying the towel from his fingers and rinsing it out in the basin.

“When I was sixteen we hosted a whole horde to celebrate one of my father’s promotions,” he begins, grasping Gilgamesh’s dirty hand and starting to scrub it down, “and as a reckless youth I of course overindulged on the wine, which resulted in the... unfortunate impromptu dyeing of the Magistrate of Esquiliae’s robes a rather garish hue of burgundy. So, if you’re looking to oust me as champion of dinner party disasters, I’m afraid you’ve a bit of a ways to go.”

“Seems that way,” Gilgamesh comments as Ardyn dumps the rag in the basin.

Ardyn pushes himself to his feet, dusting off the knees of his robes. “But for now I’ll see to it that we keep jellyfish off our _cena_ menu in the future.”

“Serve it all you like,” Gilgamesh teases. “Just don’t ask me to partake.”

Ardyn gives a half shrug and a smile. “Well, care to partake in a few more of those pastry eggs and a hare?”

“With you for company?” Gilgamesh inquires. “Absolutely.”

\---

As the walls between them continue to steadily crumble, Ardyn discovers that Gilgamesh is incredibly well educated. Fluent in their tongue, even able to read and write, he plows through books on everything from philosophy to the sciences to great volumes of history, leafs through manuscripts on law and political sciences, indulges himself with poetry and literature. He knows music as well, though the instruments he’s familiar with have yet to become popular in the capital, and some of painting and sculpture and the other arts, now particularly fascinated with mosaics since he’s been introduced to them.

Ardyn engages him in these endeavours, purchases books for him or takes him to see the street musicians at the festivals, even arranges for the purchase of one of the odd stringed instruments Gilgamesh is so familiar with, one with a name in Gilgamesh’s tongue that Ardyn butchers every time he tries to say it.

When he catches Gilgamesh reading one of the epics, he broaches him about the theater, about comedy and drama.

“I confess, I’ve never been,” Gilgamesh admits, setting his book aside. “Theater is known to my people, but not as you do it here.”

“Then we should go,” Ardyn suggests. “I think you’d rather enjoy it.”

Gilgamesh enthusiastically nods his acceptance, and Ardyn makes theater arrangements for them in the following days. In the last decade, the magnificent permanent marble theater has been completed in the capitol, replacing the shoddy wooden stages built seasonally at the forum, and Ardyn is inwardly proud to take Gilgamesh to see a play here, at this firm, tangible, magnificent testament to the Lucian arts.

He gets them a few secluded seats at the front, a prime viewing area, and that afternoon dons an evergreen tunic with a slate gray toga over it, a combination he’s always found particularly appealing. Gilgamesh looks stately in a long sleeved wine red tunic himself, broken up by a brown leather belt.

Their show starts just after midday, the awnings of the theater pulled out to create shade in horseshoe of seating. It’s loud, the crowd surprisingly full and boisterous, but Gilgamesh doesn’t seem offput, instead staring around in wonder at the structure they’re sitting in and the massive stage before them.  

His amusement seems to waver as the show begins, his expression faltering as the first scene unfolds. It’s difficult to hear over the jeering of the crowd, even seated as close as they are, and at times the acting seems to catch him off guard, Gilgamesh laughing at some of the more dramatic delivery. Fortunately, the crowd’s cheering and jeering drowns out the bellows of his laughter, though Ardyn notes the hint of an embarrassed flush on his cheeks after a particularly loud bout.

Eventually, Gilgamesh’s attentions fall away entirely from the show and he just converses with Ardyn, occasionally watching the stage when something particularly exciting happens. They talk for the remainder of the performance, until it concludes, all of the actors on stage for a brief moment to signify the denouement.

Gilgamesh abruptly falls silent to stand, clapping his hands together loudly in approval of the performance, and Ardyn grabs his hands in a panic. He tugs, urges Gilgamesh to sit, and Gilgamesh drops like a pile of stones.

“You don’t clap,” Ardyn teases, a grin on his face.

“But is that not how it’s done in─”

“Alright, yes,” Ardyn admits. “Elsewhere it is so, but this is Lucis. They’re actors. Barely above beggars. We don’t clap for them.”

“Oh.” Gilgamesh blinks in surprise, looking briefly back to the stage, and then back to Ardyn. There’s a definite flush on his face, but he’s smiling, and the two of them awkwardly chuckle about the whole thing.

Afterwards, they wander the streets back to the estate as the sun slowly sets over the city. It’s idle chatter at first, and then silence, briefly, until Ardyn decides to speak again.

“I apologize for not telling you about the clapping,” he confesses. “And the talking and all the rest.”

Gilgamesh gives him a confused look, and Ardyn adds a quick, “I get the sense that you did not enjoy yourself very much.” He feels his own cheeks heat, and quickly looks away.

“Quite the contrary,” Gilgamesh counters. “It certainly wasn’t what I expected, but I enjoyed myself a great deal.”

“Really?” Ardyn says, challenging.

“I always do, when I’m in your company,” Gilgamesh says, and it’s nakedly honest. After the months of open flirting, of coy wordplay and gestures, it’s a simple, earnest admission, and it makes Ardyn’s heart skip a beat. He stops, and Gilgamesh takes one more step before he, too, comes to a halt, the both of them looking at each other in the middle of a deserted street painted gold by the sunset.

Gilgamesh raises his brows, glancing at Ardyn, and there’s something like contentment laced over with a bit of eagerness in his eyes. His gaze lowers, eyes half lidded, and Gilgamesh moves just a bit, closing the space between them, and Ardyn tenses in anticipation.

But they both flinch as a door flings open down the street, followed by the sounds of a woman barking orders at her husband, and the moment’s gone, Ardyn instantly mourning its passing, his head filled with a dozen versions of how that kiss would’ve felt.

“We should get home before it gets dark,” he says, regaining his composure, and Gilgamesh nods his acquiescence.

\---

Before long, Ardyn has trouble remembering what life was _really_ like before Gilgamesh, and Ardyn quickly realizes it’s because he doesn’t _want_ to remember such a time. Spending time with Gilgamesh accounts for most of the high points of Ardyn’s days, everything from dining together, to going out on excursions, to just sitting side by side and reading in the courtyard. They continue to toe the line with their flirting, but neither really makes a move, and Ardyn has trouble reading Gilgamesh’s intent and expression at times.

They settle into a comfortable sphere of existence, and Gilgamesh gains a handle on the other aspects of Lucian life. No longer does he suffer genuine embarrassment from his missteps or misunderstandings; now he simply laughs them off, usually with some joke about how uppity ‘ _you Lucians’_ are, and then usually indulges Ardyn with how things are done in his homeland.

In passing, Gilgamesh befriends a group of his countrymen that live in the capital. Most are traders, a few hired swords, but they’re a rowdy bunch that Gilgamesh occasionally meets in a tavern for some conversation in his mother tongue and news of his home country. Ardyn supports him, enjoys how Gilgamesh lights up when he recounts the men and the stories from that evening, and after several weeks, he asks to go along.

“You want to come with?” Gilgamesh questions, and Ardyn nods firmly.

“If that’s all right.” Ardyn shrugs, a little nervous, feeling a bit as if he’s encroaching on some space. “I’d just like to put some names to faces.”

“Of course.” Gilgamesh is jovial as ever, and there’s genuine enthusiasm illuminating his eyes.

He accompanies Gilgamesh to the tavern, a place on the neighboring hill, whose clientele are usually travellers and traders. The rest of the group is already there, a handful of rough, tanned men with dark hair that greet them warmly. Ardyn is unused to such informality but finds it refreshing, and the men welcome him at their table, ordering wine for him while the rest indulge in beer.

The conversation switches from Gilgamesh's native tongue to common with the occasional reversion, and usually a brief segue on translation follows. Ardyn enjoys following it and their stories, getting to know this group Gilgamesh has told him about, and they in turn press him with amusing questions on the Lucian way of life.

They play dice for a bit, and Gilgamesh wins some coin that he uses to buy another round for the table. Ardyn is terribly unlucky with dice but tries his hand anyway, and of course he loses as horribly as he expects to, much to everyone's amusement.

After the dice run their course, one suggests going out for sport, going to play something with a name that Ardyn struggles to parse. Gilgamesh seems keen to go, turning to Ardyn to gauge his interest.

“Would you want to?” he asks, and Ardyn glances around the group.

“I'm not opposed,” he replies, “though I must admit, I have no idea what the game in question is.”

“It's a mounted sport, with a ball,” Gilgamesh responds, and makes a little throwing gesture.

“Oh.” Ardyn can ride, and although not the most athletic he can certainly carry his own.  “Then certainly.”

They head out to the campus, which Ardyn finds a bit unusual as mounted sports usually take place on the Eques, out on the fields. But he doesn't voice his questioning, instead following the group as they mark out a sort of court on the campus grounds.

Eventually his curiosity gets the best of him, as he watches the other men pull their tunics off to leave them in just trousers. “Where are the mounts?” he asks Gilgamesh quietly, and Gilgamesh just stares at him for a brief moment and then chuckles deeply.

“There are no beasts, if that's what you mean,” he clarifies. “Well, there are, but of a different sort.”

“No,” Ardyn says, low, shaking his head in amused disbelief. He blinks a few times, laughing breathily and nervously at their miscommunication and his misinterpretation. He flushes hotly as Gilgamesh pulls his own tunic off and sets it with the others, glancing around as one of the men crouches so his companion can climb to sit on his shoulders.

“I apologize for not clarifying,” Gilgamesh says, nervously brushing some of his hair out of his face. “I understand if you no longer wish to join us.” His eyes betray him, though, so plainly hoping that Ardyn _will,_ his earnestness written all across his face.

Ardyn purses his lips for a moment, and then tilts his head. “I'll do it,” he says, trying to keep the smile off his face.

Awkwardly he climbs on to Gilgamesh’s shoulders as the rules of the game are explained to him, but Ardyn is more focused on bunching his robes up around Gilgamesh’s head and how those hands feel on his legs than he is the mechanics of scoring. He'll learn on the fly, he figures, but he’s unexpectedly jostled as Gilgamesh stands, and Ardyn realizes it may take more effort than he thought to master this game.

It takes them a bit to settle, but then the awkwardness of their situation eases away and they throw themselves into the match. The two of them prove to be rather formidable, and Ardyn is soon breathless with laughter between plays. Everyone has a rousing good time, and even the warm summer rain that begins to pour down on them can't dampen their enjoyment.

When everyone is thoroughly exhausted and half of them muddy they break up, Ardyn being pulled into rousing hugs by the rest of the group before they part ways. He and Gilgamesh take off in a trot towards their estate, running through winding streets as the rain comes down on them in sheets.

When they arrive home, they rush inside, both panting in the entryway as their clothes drip onto the floor. Ardyn stares at Gilgamesh, smiling wildly, and Gilgamesh clearly returns his sentiments as he breaks off into a deep chuckle.

A second later, still riding his adrenaline high and emboldened from earlier, Ardyn steps forward and closes the gap between them, Gilgamesh bending down to meet him in a frantic kiss. He tastes of rainwater and bit bitter from the beer, but to Ardyn it’s the most delicious thing he's sampled in ages. Gilgamesh cards a hand into Ardyn's hair and holds him close as Ardyn tangles his fingers into Gilgamesh's black locks.

They break a moment later, chasing each other for tiny pecks until they finally each take a step back. Ardyn puts his hands on Gilgamesh's broad shoulders, and Gilgamesh holds both of his wrists as they both laugh nervously, chasing each other for one final peck. Ardyn doesn't want to let him go, fearful that if he does Gilgamesh will slip away, drift back off to his home shores, even though Ardyn rationally knows that won't happen. But Gilgamesh seems just as reluctant to let him go, too, clinging to Ardyn like an anchor.

For a moment they just stand there in the foyer, both dripping messes, and then Ardyn takes a few steps backwards, a coy smile on his face, a promise of more to come written on his lips. Gilgamesh nods his head in acknowledgment, and then heads the other way, but they keep their gazes locked on the other until they leave the foyer.

They might be separated by an upbringing, a culture, a language, but Ardyn knows there's no one else he’d rather choose.


End file.
